I believe some people have lunar souls. They get less and less over time, withdrawing more and more from social interaction; sorting and renegotiating their little universe; hiding within smaller capacities, crawling into vessels of words and phrases; but then recovering, becoming whole again, meeting others and being bright once anew. The creation of distance changes our shape; the way others perceive us…and when melancholy sweeps over us covering our souls within dark clouds of evening sky, the people around retreat in their shacks and turn on lamps, lights and candles. Sometimes I wonder what it is that makes the sun stay away and the moon being quiet in its darkness. It’s as though she never mentions the reason for her retreat, accepting it with this stunning indifference. People always speak of the beauty of moon and sun, of light, of imagery. For they know, the phases can be forecasted; so we wait expectantly, for her diminishing and her growth, sunlight and dark skies, always believing in the moon’s ability to grant us her unfaltering presence.
And when the hunger for your touch
Rises from the hunger’
You whisper’ “You have loved enough’
Now let me be the Lover.”
I like the view from my room
I love how we all agree that colonizing the Moon will be very organized and gentrifying, but colonizing Mars will bring a new age of outlaws/cowboys
Was anyone gonna tell me there was a lalaloopsy show or was i supposed to find that out while doing stimboard requests myself?
Blog #11 August 12, 2020. (I miss you)
I miss you. I miss you like the waves miss the shore, like the sky misses the stars when the sun comes up; I miss you like the moon misses the sun when it passes by it to kiss it good night and good morning everyday. I just miss you.
The sky had two moons. Barely visible in the day, two plates dull and grey kept secret in the mellow blue. Lustrous in the inky night, commanding the stars with their godly gleam. One night, one moon vanished. Jack fell asleep that night beneath the bulbous twin moons that gracefully hung above, and woke up midnight to one missing. He gawked at the lonely moon. It was half-bright and half-full. Its brother taken, its joyous light thieved. For a long moment, Jack only stared. Then, he ran to his own brother’s bed. John would know what had happened. He stumbled into his room on his little, fattish legs, eyes wide and mystified. He took tottery step after step to where his brother should lie. The bed, however, was empty. John was gone.
His diaper felt sticky. A dribble of stink a brook down his leg. He did not care. The little boy named Jack searched for John. Peeking beneath his bed, where the tousled sheets were whipped in a mess. In his closet, where he was known to hide when their mother raged. In the living room, where they would often play and watch cartoons. He was not anywhere. He was nowhere.
“John?” he asked all the way.
“John!” he shrieked when his search turned nothing but dust and lost pennies. He felt his little heart race, pump pump pump in the brittle cage of his ribs. He felt his eyes well, water spilling like the stream of reek pooling at his bare feet, leaking past his sodden cloth. He was about to scream for his mother, when a hand clamped his mouth shut.
“Quiet, little one.” It was John. His touch, the scent of his dirt-ridden hand, the familiar feel of his brother calmed Jack quick.
“Turn around, Jack. Do not say a word about this to anyone.”
Jack turned. Before him, his brother. The same spindly frame, all bones and body starved. The same curly hair. The same wild light in his brave eyes. Something, however, was different. Jack could tell. His body was held tighter, higher, his chin tilted up. His curly hair curved unnatural. The light was a storm in his ashen eyes. His smile the lightning, electric and brilliant. On one hand, his fingers glowed. Jack could only stand dumb. His heart still pump pump pumping, his tiny head struck thoughtless.
John uncurled his fingers. John held a ball of bright white. John held the moon in his hand.